


the trouble with puppies

by novoaa1



Series: the learning curve [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Bottom Natasha Romanov, F/F, Light Dom/sub, POV Natasha Romanov, Sex, They bang, Top Carol Danvers, Until she isn't, but here we are, carols a puppy, cause carols lowkey smooth af too, i guess, i won't lie this one kind of got away from me, ish, natasha tries to keep her chill but it doesn't totally work, natasha's a smooth mf, uhhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 13:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19199689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: "Carol Danvers was like a puppy—a likable, cute, admittedly quite capable puppy, but a puppy all the same.Natasha didn’t do well with puppies."Or: Carol likes Natasha. Natasha is confused. And uhh... then they bang.





	the trouble with puppies

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】小狗狗的麻烦 the trouble with puppies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20039086) by [R_H_Felidae_Athena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_H_Felidae_Athena/pseuds/R_H_Felidae_Athena)



> idk man i'm out in the butt ass end of nowhere (seriously, there's no wifi and bugs everywhere and i have to climb a wooden ladder to get to my bed every night), but i wrote this while absolutely cracKed out of my minD from 2 hours of sleep and maybe it sucks maybe it doesn't but i got other stories i need to update haha this just kind of wouldn't leave me alone
> 
> that said, this is my first carol x nat work, so, hope you like:)

Carol Danvers was like a puppy—a likable, cute, admittedly quite capable puppy, but a puppy all the same. 

 

Natasha didn’t do well with puppies. 

 

Puppies were like sunshine and the laughter of children and unconditional love, something Captain Danvers seemed to possess in spades even while she hit people and blasted things and stopped the bad guys with devastating efficiency at every given opportunity. 

 

Natasha, meanwhile, lived life in the shadows—covert assassinations, disappearing without a trace at the most unlikely of times, becoming nothing more than a bone-chilling ghost story that mothers shared with their children worldwide to strike fear into their hearts.

 

Puppies loved unconditionally; and yet, Natasha seemed to represent everything even those tiny idealist creatures wouldn’t dare venture to love—and for good reason, too.

 

… Which only made the whole thing that much more confusing when Carol hung around her and made dumb jokes and grinned so stupidly big when she managed to succeed at making Natasha’s lips quirk into a smile.

 

She’d seen the way Carol looked at her, of course—Natasha would never be accused of being stupid, and the blonde’s attraction towards her was so overt and adorably unhidden; even if Natasha weren’t a highly trained ex-KGB ex-assassin, it’d be a damn hard thing to miss.

 

So, fine, Natasha decided—she could work with that. 

 

She’d sleep with Carol, have a nice steamy night making her fall apart under Natasha’s fingertips, and, there. Problem solved. 

 

(If only it were that simple.) 

 

— — 

 

The plan was simple: Natasha would invite Carol back to her quarters in Avengers Tower, her freezer well-stocked with high-quality Russian vodka (for Natasha) and what was, according to Thor, the “finest of Asgardian spirits” (for Carol). 

 

Natasha would wear something understated but flattering (and easy to get out of)—in the end, she decided upon tiny black running shorts that just showed the delicate curve of her butt and an off-the-shoulder graphic tee with Halestorm’s most recent hard rock album on its front. 

 

Natasha would invite the Captain in with a flirty smile and a wink, then they’d drink and talk and drink some more, and when Carol’s chocolatey brown-eyed gaze darted down to her lips for the millionth time that night, Natasha would make her move. 

 

Blessedly, all that goes exactly as intended. 

 

(Natasha would never settle for a plan that guaranteed anything less.)

 

They're lounged upon the plush leather couch in the living-room-slash-kitchen-space, Carol’s cheeks bearing a slight flush from the liquor, Natasha’s head feeling buzzy but focused, their laughter increasing in volume even as the space between them grows ever smaller.

 

It's nice, Natasha thinks—Carol in her ripped slim-fit jeans and white Nine Inch Nails tee, Natasha with her calves resting atop Carol’s lap, feet bare, her entire body tingling with some inexplicable warmth she’ll most certainly blame on the alcohol after all this is over. 

 

And then, it happens: Natasha leans almost imperceptibly forward in the midst of an animated story detailing the more trivial events of Strike Team Delta’s infamous trip to Budapest (—she’ll never tell anyone about the bad stuff, about the piercing screams and the utter destruction and the things they did for the mission that will haunt her for as long as she lives), and Carol’s wide coffee-bean brown eyes drop to her lips and stay there. And when Natasha bites her lip while she still has Carol’s attention, the blonde swallows thickly and does her best to blink the glazed-over look in her eyes away, and Natasha knows she has her. 

 

Over the next minute, she curls her body further into Carol’s, her movements subtle and deliberate—and all too soon they’re _there_ , the length of Natasha’s body pressed flush against Carol’s, their faces millimeters away, warm breaths mingling in the dim light of the apartment. 

 

She can feel the heat of Carol’s labored breaths, the desire in her burning stare, and when Carol mumbles “Fuck it,” before abruptly pressing her lips firmly against Natasha’s, the assassin responds in kind—moving herself to straddle Carol’s lap, kissing back slow and unhurried as she wraps both arms tightly around Carol's neck, grinding eagerly into the feel of Carol’s hands skating delicately over the exposed skin of Natasha’s thighs.

 

A minute later and they're parting their kiss for air, breathing heavily (though for Natasha it has less to do with actual need for oxygen and more of that completely unexplainable feeling from earlier making its not-so-subtle reappearance deep in her gut), Natasha only barely managing to catch an involuntary moan from escaping her throat when Carol begins to press warm open-mouthed kisses down her neck— _God_ , it's good.

 

_She's_ good. 

 

And maybe Natasha hadn’t been expecting a bumbling virgin, but for the first time in a very long time, she finds herself underprepared—not egregiously so, but she's underprepared just the same, and that was something of an anomaly. 

 

The Black Widow didn’t do ‘underprepared,’ didn’t do anything less than ruthless efficiency and time-conscious agility, because she knew better. She always had. 

 

She's midway into cursing herself with an especially lengthy slew of expletives (both in English and in Russian) for being so goddamned senseless, when she feels Carol’s teeth nipping gently at the slope of her neck, suctioning the skin so deliciously and forcibly dragging her attentions back to the present, not bothering to quiet the strangled whimper the action elicits from her like sweet pollen from a blooming honeysuckle in the spring. 

 

Then she's pulling at Carol’s shirt to even the score, an endeavor the excitable Captain is all too eager to assist her in—she feels her breath catch in her throat with every inch of tanned golden skin revealed to her, with every twitch and jump of well-formed muscle beneath her fingers, but, fine. 

 

(It’s not like it has to mean anything—maybe Natasha just knows how to appreciate art, okay?)

 

Carol isn’t entirely topless, is still clad in a simple black sports bra that does absolutely nothing to hide the generous swell of her breasts—and yet, Natasha finds herself just a hair short of transfixed. 

 

She wants to run her fingers over every dip and curve, wanted to chase her touch with affectionate kisses in their place, wants so many things like she seldom has before—but Carol has different ideas.

 

Natasha barely notices as Carol strips her top half bare (she’d foregone a bra to make the whole thing that much simpler; plus, it had the added bonus of Carol not quite knowing where to look: her butt, breasts, or lips), just focuses on tracing the seam of Carol’s lips with her tongue, allowing the fervent kiss to turn wet, hot, _filthy_. 

 

With her tongue caressing languidly against Carol’s, she allows her hands to wander from the blonde’s neck down to the waistband of her jeans, already fiddling expertly with the square-shaped belt buckle—and abruptly, Carol’s hands are upon hers, their lips parting while brown eyes rage with want and desire, and green eyes reflect the sentiment atop a hint of well-hidden confusion, Natasha’s hands stilling under Carol’s.

 

“You first,” Carol husks, and Natasha blinks, careful not to let the suspicion rearing its head in her chest to show upon her carefully constructed mask of neutrality. 

 

Instead, she moves her hands back up to wrap around Carol’s neck, pressing their lips together with a renewed fervor, smirking into their kiss when Carol’s answering groan reverberates through her body—she shivers as Carol’s calloused palm dances down her exposed stomach, as the other comes around to play with the waistband of her (admittedly) flimsy excuse for ‘running shorts,’ feeling a familiar sort of unfettered heat beginning to build deep beneath her gut, setting her alight with white-hot arousal and _want_. 

 

And still, Carol teases— _God_ , does she tease. 

 

She uses every trick in the book, every trick Natasha has employed in her countless seductions of marks on missions (and some she never has), driving the assassin positively mad with every touch, every stroke, every moment she aches for Carol’s attention where she so desperately needs it most but doesn’t get it. 

 

It's as if Carol can sense her hesitation, her reticence to ask for what she wants, to show her cards in a move that doesn’t ever necessarily guarantee a payoff—and so, she teases. And waits. And _teases_. 

 

Natasha feels as if she's going to explode, especially when Carol grips her hips with strong fingers and deliberately guides her to grind torturously slow over the half-undone belt buckle from earlier, every movement dragging the cool silver against Natasha’s scantily-clad center, sending jolts of electricity throughout her entire body with every sinful nudge atop her aching clit—she's long since stopped muffling her moans of pleasure, every stroke alighting something overpoweringly poignant and _raw_ in her gut, keening mewls escaping her with every motion.

 

Eventually, she breaks (or, as close as the Black Widow ever gets to ‘breaking’): “Fuck me,” she demands through gritted teeth, another guttural whine escaping her as the woman guides Natasha so persistently to rub against the rough material of her jeans. 

 

Carol just smirks, and Natasha has to fight against the powerful urge to hit her in retaliation. “You’re not going to ask nicely?” she purrs so simply, so _innocently_ , her hands stroking aimless patterns into the bare skin of her thighs, and Natasha growls. 

 

“Fuck me. Please,” she breathes, not bothering to keep the displeased edge from her words.

 

Carol chuckles, the sound rushing straight to Natasha’s clit. “We’ll work on that,” she murmurs, and Natasha whines. “But that’s okay. For now,” she finishes, promptly slipping a hand beneath Natasha’s waistband and stroking dexterously through her soaking folds, eliciting the loudest moan yet from Natasha as pleasure explodes behind her eyes. 

 

“S-Shit,” she chokes out, ignoring the smug grin on Carol’s face, focusing instead on the single digit tracing her entrance, the sparks of bliss with every graze against her sensitive clit, the intoxicating feel of Carol gripping Natasha tight against her body while she drives Natasha straight to the heights of self-indulgence.

 

A second later, and Carol is sinking two digits into her dripping entrance without warning, ripping a gasp from Natasha’s throat and—

 

“Ride my fingers, Tash,” she tells her gently, and, _Fuck_.

 

Natasha doesn’t really care that she’s relinquishing control, doesn’t care that Carol had never called her ’Tash’ before (not that she minds—though also not that she'll ever let the blonde know), doesn’t care about any of it when Carol’s fingers are inside her, filling her so _well_ , her palm grazing Natasha’s clit and—

 

She obliges Carol’s request in earnest, grinding her hips up and down at a relentless pace atop Carol’s lap, relishing in the delectable stretch on every downwards thrust—then Carol’s fingers are curling inside her, brushing right up against the spot that makes Natasha see stars and she’s sure she blacks out for a split second, sure she loses the plot even if only for a moment because Carol’s whispering praise against her neck and grinding her palm against Natasha’s clit and curling her fingers just _right_ and before she can think she’s falling, flung unceremoniously into the oblivion of a kind of bliss-soaked delirium she’s only ever known once or twice before in her life. 

 

Carol’s words, her touch, the steady strokes of her fingers deep in Natasha’s wetness is nothing short of heaven, which is rather ironic considering they’re the only things keeping Natasha sane, keeping her here in reality as waves of pleasure threaten to abscond with her entirely. 

 

A couple seconds later and she’s recovered somewhat, her breaths evening out, a small whimper escaping her unbidden as Carol’s fingers slide deftly out her—then she’s watching in rapt enthrallment as Carol takes her fingers, glistening lewdly with the abundance of Natasha’s wetness, into her mouth, letting out a rumbling moan at the taste… and for the first time since as long as she can remember, Natasha is… well, she’s not speechless, per se; Natasha doesn’t do ‘speechless.’

 

But still, there’s something that prevents her from speaking, something that renders her quiet for the moment with Carol pressed fully against her, with the unrestrained hunger in her brown eyes mixed inexplicably with something softer, something that shakes Natasha to her very core—she’s not quite sure what it is yet, but she knows it’s not good, knows that above all else, it means trouble. 

 

Bad. 

 

And then Carol is placing a kiss on her lips, and another atop her sweat-dotted forehead, a dopey grin on her features—and when Natasha’s hands stray to her belt buckle again, intent on making her come apart just like she did Natasha, she’ll tell her no, that there’s no need, that “Tonight is about you, Natasha,” and Natasha will begin to understand just how deep this trouble runs.

 

Natasha will begin to understand that Carol Danvers isn’t a puppy (—and if she is, she’s one far unlike anything Natasha has ever known before).

 

No, Carol Danvers is a separate being entirely, and maybe Natasha doesn’t quite know what that is yet, but she can’t imagine it’ll mean anything good for her. 

 

Above all else, it spells trouble. 

 

Bad.

 

— —

**Author's Note:**

> would love to hear any feedback etc. !! also here’s the link to my 


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